Margaret
by ChocolateIsMyDrug
Summary: From 'North and South'. He hadn't always loved her as well as he did now, but over the years she had become his whole world.


**A/N: **Just a plot bunny that struck at about eleven pm last night when I had already been in bed for about half an hour. I wrote it the first chance I got, and so here it is. Please review and tell me what you think – I hope you enjoy!

*

**Margaret**

*

Despite his headache, John Thornton continued to work until closing time, giving it his all just as he did everyday. He was as tireless as the machines he superintended, because everyday as he toiled, he did it with her image in his mind. After the death of his mother some years previously, she was all he had, and he would do whatever it took to support the two of them, to ensure their future.

The bell for closing finally rung, and although it jarred his head, he was glad, because the bell meant it was time to go home, time to go to her. He rose, closing the ledgers he had been working on, and opened the door of his office and began to walk, his steps brisk and despite his tiredness, eager.

She would be waiting up for his return, he knew, just as she did everyday. The evening was a special time that was theirs and theirs alone. It was a time in which they could bring each other up to speed on the trivialities of their lives, a time in which they could confide in one another, a time in which they were the only two people in the world. They would titter together for hours like children, talking of everything and nothing, having tournaments of chess, or simply sitting and watching the fire in a companionable silence. He was happiest when he was with her.

Margaret was the light of his life and the glow of his soul. It had taken them both some time to grow accustomed to one another, and he could admit that he hadn't always loved her as well as he did now, but over the happy seventeen years they had spent with each other, she had become his whole world.

They sometimes had arguments; that was inevitable. Both had very strong opinions, and sparks flew when there was a clash. But apart from once, these rows had never lasted long; neither of them could stand it. One or other of them would approach the other, meekly, silently. Neither had to say a word; they understood one another perfectly.

That one time when Margaret had gone, despite his expressly forbidding it, to nurse one of her factory friends, a girl dying of typhoid, he had exploded. Their voices had echoed around the house on that day, his fear making him unreasonable, while the strength of her conviction had roused her passionate temper to boiling point. They had not spoken for a week.

John had finally gone to her and had told her the story of a woman just like Margaret, a woman whose courage and kind heart had led her to the side of one of her oldest and dearest friends, a friend who was so ill that others shunned him for their own safety. This woman had nursed her friend, had tried her best to save him and had lost him anyway. A few weeks later, she herself began to show symptoms of the disease. She lived less than a month after that. It had been the first time Margaret had ever seen John cry, and he still remembered how she had clung to him tightly, her own voice choked with tears, finally understanding him. 'I'm sorry,' she had sobbed. 'I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm sorry.'

He shivered at the brisk wind as he crossed the mill-yard and approached the house. Through the sitting room window, he could see the glow of candles and the beginnings of a smile played across his face. Less than a minute now, and he would see her. He bounded nimbly up the stairs to the front door, still sprightly and full of energy for his age.

Letting himself in through the front door, he walked down the hall quietly to the sitting room, hoping to surprise her with his slightly earlier appearance. It was no use, however. As he entered the room, the dark head bent over her book turned itself as if sensing his presence, and its owner jumped up at once, her bright eyes delighted. 'Papa, you're early!'

Then she closed the distance between them, enveloping him in a bear hug which he returned, laughing a little. Then she frowned slightly as she took in the dark circles under his eyes. 'You look tired,' she said. She looked at him sternly. 'You're overworking yourself again, aren't you?' Tutting, she removed his coat for him and led him over to a chair. 'I'll pour you some nice hot tea,' she said, and began busying herself about the tea things in the pretty way that was so familiar to him.

He took her small hand in his own larger one, using her fingers as sugar-tongs, and when he saw the familiar expression light up her luminous eyes, half-love and half-laughter, his heart gave a pang. She grew more like her mother everyday.

*


End file.
